100 words a day

Several years ago, during a rash of weddings, I became known as a crier.  Most of the tears had to do with my parents’ separation and subsequent divorce.  Going through divorce and then watching two people stand up and declare their love and desire to be together forever brought on conflicting feelings of sadness and romanticism. 

This weekend I attended two weddings and cried at one.  It happened when I held and fed my best friend’s 10-week-old daughter for the first time.  I love my best friend and her husband dearly, and it was amazing to hold their little love.

Dragon dogs, belly bile, mystical sprite, wizard caps, dragon snot, liquid cobra tongue, edible rats, worms and ruffled dragon scales were the menu of the day. Magic wands were made, faces painted and potions concocted. A magical time had by all.

The grandest wizard of all turned eight yesterday and the yard was his kingdom, with lights and tents, stuffed dragons and fellow wizard followers.

A bonfire lit the night sky as guests took to the air –via trampoline, chasing dragons.

As the kingdom cleared and embers glowed, it didn’t take much of a spell to put our wizard down.

I am filling a bag with mesclun greens at the farmers’ market when my sister calls about major traffic downtown. 

“Alicia says to avoid Market Street,” I tell my husband, “I wonder what’s going on.”

A middle-aged, well-dressed woman next to me says, “It’s crazy down there today.  Hillary and Osama are in town.”

“Really?”  I am incredulous.  When did they find Osama?  How self-involved am I to have missed this?

She continues, “I know, talk about political strategy, both campaigning here on the same day.” 

It hits me.  She means Obama. 

Seems to me, he’s fighting an uphill battle.

Today I volunteered at an Urbanathalon.  With a field of approximately 1% women, my objective in this philanthropic act was to mingle with unattached male endurance athletes.

It consisted of an 8 mile run, plus navigating obstacles:  climbing over taxis, hurdles, walls, 52 flights of stairs, and a scaffolding maze.

I met no one, as I was assigned to direct traffic.  Stopping cars for passing urbanathletes along the West Side Highway, with no authority beyond a race t-shirt.  It was the most dangerous two hours of my life. 

Urbanathalon 2008, I’m not looking for love.  I’m entering the race instead.

Today’s conversation was about the weather.  So dull, so boring, yet we were both smiling, trying to make horrible jokes land.  Fortunately for me, I have a very high tolerance for insanely awkward moments.   

On a more analytical note, I am trying to understand why we can’t seem to get past this awkward stage.  It could be just a goofy bridge we need to cross in order to get to the other side.  Or this could just be how we are. 

Currently the status quo is amusing, but it won’t be forever.  One of us has to up the ante.

We run together all the time.  I’ve grown fond of our time together hitting the pavement, huffing and puffing.  We do it at least three times a week.

I must admit: she’s much faster than I am.  She really pushes me when I need it.  And when I don’t.  And she’s always excited to run with me.  She never complains. 

I relish the moments when I get lost in the methodic rhythm of our breath, our feet, the music from my Ipod.

But then she stops to pee and I almost always trip over her. 

“Misty! For the love, dog!”

Strolling slowly enough for everyone to keep up and take in the whirling neon and hide –and-seek screams of feigned terror, our family took in the State Fair.

The wonderful aroma of fried pies, cotton candy and livestock filled the air.  The full moon was the perfect backdrop for Cannonball Dave Smith, who flew before our very eyes – twice.

Our eight year old, bold enough for his first turn on the high speed
Himalaya, reassured his Mom by also needing a ride on the flying dragons.

All that, and a country music concert, the worlds largest cow, snake and rat.

You don’t often see a young woman drinking on her own this late at night.  But, tonight, in this bar in this small French resort town, that is exactly what this blonde is doing, gone midnight.

She is just sitting there in a corner, smoking, nursing a glass of red wine. My boyfriend watches, transfixed, maybe a little too much for my liking. Later, she comes over to chat to his two friends, clearly touting for business.

I learn all this later, when I wake up. Sat next to my boyfriend, I have been sound asleep for the past hour.

Today I receive a Costco coupon for an 18-piece bakeware set. It shows a picture of ceramic pans, roasting dishes, and pudding bowls, each filled with food. One holds roasted pork loin with potatoes. Another contains puffy brioche, a third some cheese delight.

Fine print beneath reads: Additional items not included.

I crack up. As if someone would actually think that an 18-course meal comes with the 18-piece set. Who writes this stuff? Some pathetic lawyer is trying very hard to put his/her law degree to use.

Then it occurs to me that only pathetic lawyers notice the fine print.

I had dinner with the sisters tonight.  When we started our outings, all we talked about was work, where we met.  That was years ago and a lot has changed, except for me. 

I’m sick of work.  I talk about it.  I write about it.  I’m pretty sure I dream about it. 

I don’t hate my job.  I just wish I could downsize the space it’s renting in my brain. 

Am I actually trying to change?  I honestly don’t know.  I remind myself that baby steps are sufficient.  But baby steps are for cowards.  It’s time for some running leaps.

Tonight, I went to an event called…a “Man Harvest”.

Yeah, that’s right.

It was open bar, which is speaking my language.  Pulp-infused “Harvest-tinis.” 

It was open season on the freaky guy who looked like Phil Spector.  I wanted to get my picture taken with him, for my holiday card, with the caption “Man Harvest 07”

You can’t say you’ve tried everything to meet a man until you’ve been to a “Man Harvest”. I gave my card to one guy, the only one I thought was age appropriate and decent looking.

He was new in town, so we’ll see what grows.

I don’t understand how anger flares up so quickly in me.  Its arrival is unheralded; as sudden as an earth tremor, yet more violent.   

My morning was pleasant.  I attended court and reduced my ticket fines drastically.  I laughed all the way to the video store with my best friend, dancing with the music.  I ran with my dog in the dazzling sunshine around the block.

Moments later, I’m hyperventilating in the shower because a friend is being high-maintenance and I can’t see the movie for the glare on the TV.  

It ends with overturned furniture and a tearful nap.

This evening I had the other Saudi kids over to my place for wine and cheese.  We all are just getting to know each other, and a couple of the guys depart next week.  All in all, they’re a good bunch.  One guy is really into board games, and with no dating or even a movie theater in the kingdom, I’m certain we’ll be having plenty of game nights.  

Should all other means of socialization fail, I’m thinking of purchasing a monstrosity of a TV.  I’ve been without one for over three years now, but it’s about time to invest.

There’s a person in my orientation class at work who everyone dislikes.  She’s an abrasive and unreasonable kiss-ass.  When she couldn’t make a joint birthday party for seven of us who turned 30 this year because she also works as a bartender, she yelled at the hostess for having the party on a Saturday night. 

That said, she’s a former model who knows how to charm people perched several rungs above her on the corporate ladder.  She shmoozes, lunches, and sends thank-you notes.  She’s 5’11” of pure ambition.  I hope the higher-ups can see through her as her classmates do.

Well, I got up, got out, and tried to make it count today.

The complaining, though, may be here to stay.

I’m riding the bike at the gym (benched from running, due to the Grand Canyon-sized blister on the bottom of my foot from Sunday’s half marathon) with a pedaling sweat fountain on the bike next to me.

On top of which, every few minutes this guy kept raising his arms overhead to wipe it off in all directions…including mine. 

I mean, really.  He should have brought an umbrella for me and the person on the other side of him. 

I awoke yesterday singing the Star Spangled Banner.  I’m serious.  All day I wondered about Francis Scott Key.  Who was he?  I bet the history books got it wrong.

Key, a frustrated poet, living on less than pennies, couldn’t even make ends acquaint. He’s drafted to war and, overwhelmed by the adrenaline of victory, he jots down an impromptu poem.  The next morning he reads it and crumples it up.  What was he thinking, an ode to a flag? It’s too mainstream, too obvious.  But someone finds and circulates it.  And Key dies knowing his worst poem was his legacy.

When I visited New Orleans last weekend, my friends took me to see a palm reader they said spoke the gospel truth.  While I kept a poker face, he told me past and current facts about myself that are amazingly accurate.  All of them – career, personality, health – were right.  He also told me about my future, some of which I’m sure will come true, and I wrote down everything to cross-check later. 

Part of me realizes that the palm reader could have been making things up or reading micro facial cues, but the entertainment value was worth what I paid.

It’s 1:06 pm.  I’m still in my pajamas.  The white afternoon light pours through the skylight above, illuminating the Job Search Log on the desk in front of me. 

I absentmindedly smooth my pillow-tousled hair and let a sigh deflate my chest.  I log out of Myspace and my Yahoo mail account.

Yikes, I should probably get ready for the day. 

I hear a program come on the television.

Oh my God.  I used to watch that show on my lunch break.  

Day 59 of unemployment.  Let’s see what errands I can scrounge up today to make me feel worthwhile.

My sister’s close friend just learned that her mother has terminal cancer and about a month left.  Kristin and her mom are wonderful people who’ve been important to my sister for over fifteen years. 

On top of feeling so terribly for this family, it makes me want to stop complaining, stop sleeping late, stop procrastinating, stop making excuses. 

If I had a month left to live, or a month left with a loved one, I don’t know where I’d start or what I’d do. 

I guess I should start by getting up, getting out, getting motivated, and making it count.

I am horrible with change.  I’m not spontaneous and I can’t make quick decisions about pretty much anything.  If you give me enough time to think about something I can come to a decision and feel comfortable about it.  In fact, I won’t change my mind back after I have made a decision.  But give me a situation where I have to make a quick decision about a life altering change and I hesitate and usually say no.  Often this isn’t the right decision and many times I regret my choice afterwards.  I need to be more decisive and spontaneous.

I dislike public restrooms.  Reasons are many.  Here’s one. 

You’re at an establishment with one bathroom per gender.  Door is closed.  No telling if a compadre is inside. 

You knock.  Nothing.  You try the knob.  It is, of course, locked.  Person comes out with a look.  You know that look.  It’s one worn by someone who’s just been interrupted while trying to do their thing.

You don’t knock.  You wait.  Someone queues up.  You try the knob.  It is, of course, unlocked.  Person gives you a look. You know that look.  It’s one you wear when you see an idiot. 

Out of the blue, our burglar alarm blares.  We never activated it.  There is no passcode, no OFF button. 

My husband cuts power to the house.  We have blessed silence but no lights, no internet and a nonworking fridge.  We restore power.  The alarm screeches. 

He opens the circuit box.  Inside looks like those bombs that action movie heroes have to disarm before time runs out.  He works tangles of colorful wires, unscrews an adaptor from the wall.

Moments later, power is restored without the alarm.

“All set.”  He says.

He looks so sexy, I want to thank him properly.

When I was twenty she tried to teach me that self-sufficiency was overrated.  She was too late; my father had gotten to me years before.

Now she wants to swoop in and fix things.  She wants to be the fixer. I don’t blame her; apparently that’s what mothers do. Especially mothers who don’t feel needed anymore.  But I can’t seem to let her.

What’s wrong with trying to take care of myself?  Isn’t that how I learn?  Isn’t that how I become stronger?

Sometimes I wonder if the struggle is worth it.  Am I gaining more than I am losing?

Sunday Morning. I lie beside you as you tickle me.  I know the rule - my flat, my turn to make tea.  In the kitchen, the kettle bubbles and clicks off.  After 38 years, I feel I belong in the world, and I am relishing every second.

I nudge the bedroom door open, a mug in each hand.  You look up from your newspaper and smile.  There may be dark times ahead, days when I feel like throwing things at the kitchen wall, but, today, there is tea.  We will drink it together, saying little, my head on your shoulder.

Since both our children were old enough to comprehend – probably in the womb, I’ve instilled in them a rule I hold sacred.

Question authority.

Seek, search, be aware and be curious, but just don’t take anyone’s word for it, especially “authority-types.”

This advice has served our teenage daughter well.  She questions lots of people, issues and situations with a keen awareness and respect.

Our eight-year-old son on the other hand uses the “question authority” rule as a license to run the kingdom – his way or the highway.

“Dad, you always said to question…” comes back to haunt me daily, hourly.

I was invited to karaoke happy hour, replied yes with the caveat that I don’t sing.

I forwarded the invitation, telling people to join us but that I wouldn’t sing.  I’ve only done karaoke once, St. Patrick’s Day 2002, and that was after draining a keg of green beer in the middle of Illinois.

Last night I arrived at karaoke and emphatically shot down every request to sing.  “My big mouth is for talking, not singing.”

And yet…at about 10:30 pm, there I was, belting out “Eye of the Tiger” with my roommate Alvina.  Complete with fake jabs and uppercuts.

When I was a kid, I played Sorry! with my siblings.  Looking back, I noticed that there are two kinds of people that play this game.   

The first is the kind who is truly sorry when they dismiss another player’s piece back to start.  The other is the kind who gleefully banishes another player’s piece back to start.  Derisive laughter most often accompanies. 

As an adult, I believe that I’m the person who exercises golden regret when my actions cause someone else pain.  

But there are times when I’d love to shout “Sorry!” and not mean it one little bit.

I was driving home, running late, my eyes alternating between the road and the digital clock on my dash. All around me taillights tapped out Morse code with their luminescent crimson and I slowed to a complete stop.

Distracted by runaway thoughts, I was startled aware by a forceful stream of water hitting my windshield. The jeep ahead of me had a rear window windshield wiper and the nozzle was pointed the wrong way.  I was speechless. Did he know? When my windshield cleared I looked at his rearview mirror.  He was looking in it and clapping.

Oh he knew.

This morning I was greeted by Jodi Foster from “The Brave One.” Yesterday was Meryl Streep from “Sophie’s Choice,” and tomorrow, who knows?

Our daughter is a fine young actor and tonight and tomorrow she has a lead in a Fall production at school. This means performing has reached fever-pitch and our thespian could be anyone, anytime.

Mostly, she’s just our kid, but inspiration, motivation and rehearsing could strike at anytime and voila…she’s in character.

Things are never dull. I might have coffee with Reese Witherspoon or square off with Sigourney Weaver in “Alien.”

After all, it’s just acting, right?

Today I attended a class on how the brain acquires language.  One important factor is motivation.  I’ve known for a while that this would be an issue for me.  I’ve wanted to learn Arabic for years and love to learn in general, but when it’s forced on me, I’m less interested.  It becomes a chore – work.   

However, if there’s a goal or a test I think I can ace, I’ll put a lot of effort into studying.  I’m competitive.  So I need to trick myself and make this a fun competition.  I should write down short and long term goals.

Yesterday was “National Talk Like a Pirate Day.”  My kids and I remembered - making and having some fun.

My family knows a lot about Pirates and the difference between a Buccaneer and Corsair, Blackbeard and Sir Francis Drake, the good ones from bad.

Occasionally, I’m a good Pirate.  We go off on daring adventures, spinning tales and listening to one another.

Other times, I’m a bad Pirate, plundering and ruining the adventure.

Like most Pirates, I can’t live under anybody’s flag but my own.  I can visit a lot of ports, but not for long and not for always.

Monday night I told her I wasn’t going home for the holiday. Initially, she regarded it as an empty threat. Like a child throwing screaming for attention.  But I was not shouting.  I was not kicking my legs.

Once she realized I was serious, she went to offensive lengths to change my mind. She asked politely.Then she dropped the diplomacy and ordered me. And for the finale, she feigned a fatal illness.

Then my brother contacted me: So you’re really not coming home? What actually happened when she visited?

Finally, my grandmother called.  Nothing is worse than grandparental guilt.

In my former life, I was a process improvement consultant.  In fact, I can still annoy even my closest friends by identifying techniques to streamline the dullest of processes.  In an ironic twist, my free time could use an efficiency expert right about now.   

I finish work at 2:30 p.m. but somehow cannot manage to squeeze in time to make a few Arabic flashcards and do my homework.  I blame lethargy, caused by allergies, and my unwillingness to addict myself to caffeine or over-the-counter allergy medicine.  Maybe I should change that policy.  I need to get into a groove soon.

I have this friend.

She’s married to…this guy. I love this friend so much. I don’t love this guy…at all.

He asks how you’re doing, then disconnects and plays with his phone.

He swings by your house to “visit”, then asks to use your driveway to wash his car.

He’s your friend for networking reasons, not because he actually cares about you.

He consoles you as you weep about struggling with homosexuality, then bellows derogatory gay jokes at lunch when you’re sitting right next to him.

Question:

Do I tolerate him for her sake or do I lose them both?

I make my way down the crowded carriage on my regular evening train.

At last, a table. Covered in rubbish. Really, some people. I sigh, and take it to the bin, including a particularly offensive brown paper bag.  

The man opposite me puts down his paper after a few minutes. “Have you seen a paper bag?” 

“You’ll be telling me there was a gold watch in there,” I say with a nervous laugh. “I’ve binned it.”

“No,” replied the mild-mannered man. “Just a bun I was rather looking forward to.”

I avoid eye contact for the rest of the journey.

Shortly after my friend’s revelation yesterday that his wife left him, I heard that another  friend lost her grandmother.  Today I learned of another faltering marriage, a miscarriage, and an operation to remove pre-cancerous cells.  When did life get so complicated?   

I don’t know if I could deal with these issues.  My life, without a partner, children, or even a guinea pig, seems full.  I feel like I don’t want to grow up, that the tragedies would paralyze me.  My posts have hinted at desires for marriage and a family, but when I seriously ponder the potential, I’m scared senseless.

I have a hard time understanding lyrics.  Probably owing to not learning English until I was eight.  I used to think in Tiny Dancer Elton John sang:  hold me closer, Tony Danza.  This made sense, seeing as it’s Elton.   

Yesterday, I hum to my husband.    

“80’s song,” I say, “about circus life.”  

Blank look.                           

I sing, “Oh girl, stand by me I am forever yours, Mystery.”  

His eyes flicker.  “Are you singing that Journey song?”   

“Yes!  But why is her name Mystery?”   

He laughs so hard, I barely catch his words, “Beats me, baby, but I am forever yours, faithfully.”

If I‘m in a restaurant and have a view of someone with bad table manners, I want a refund.  At least, a free drink.

Today’s culprit was shoveling such enormous quantities of food into her mouth; it’d have been more efficient for her to use a forklift.

The next shocker was the huge rock on her finger.  Who would sign on for a lifetime of watching her eat?  Who bought that eye-catching, dime sized diamond, accentuating the hand that was feeding her?   

You, at Harry’s Burritos today with the brown jacket on….yeah, I’m talking to you.  Next time, order takeout.

I look up at the sky - a lot.  Mostly at night, where I can point out to my kids, Orion, Cassiopeia, the North Star, the Seven Sisters and all of their stories. They are thrilled to look up and know where they are in the universe.

I said I look up a lot.  Not only at night.  In my yard today, a large Barn Owl and a Red-Tailed Hawk are squawking and fighting for territory.

Their dance is as wild and intriguing as Orion’s and the Pleiades.

Only it’s a whole lot louder and a lot more interesting – now.

I read the post by Cesika regarding marriage and how do you know.  Can you ever really know?  It is a leap of faith.  In the beginning you are giddy with love.  I think its impossible to keep that initial feeling.  Day to day life wears you down.  If you are lucky and work hard at the relationship it will hopefully sustain.  There are days when I can’t imagine life without my husband and days where I want to run away and never come back.  People change and there has to be a give and take or resentment sets in.

When I was accepted to write for 100wordsaday I was so excited.  My mind raced with all of the things I would write.  Now, here it is weeks later and I am just sitting down to write for the first time.  Its not that I didn’t want to write, I just couldn’t find the time.  How sad is that?  Its just 100 words, not a novel.  In any event, I’m here now.  Should I share my feelings and fantasies?  Should I vent all my frustrations?  Should I share my life and possibly bore you with the mundane details?  Stay tuned.

A simple “how was your weekend?” revealed his wife of seven months had just left him.  She knew he wanted an international career, and she even joined him in taking Arabic classes this summer to prepare for their new life in Saudi Arabia.  So what happened? 

For years I’ve researched the ingredients to a successful marriage.  I’d like to think that if I “summer and winter” someone, I’ll learn enough to be good to go.  The truth is I’ll never know. 

A lawyer friend told me marriage is a leap of faith.  Then she advised me to get a pre-nup.

My teenage daughter is complex.  Her maturity reaches beyond IQ, book sense and awareness.  She is interesting, opinionated, involved and overall a lot of fun – most of the time.

She is a dedicated thespian with a number of productions under her belt.  This is where the complexities come in.

The gap between teenager and Peter Pan father gets uncomfortably wider each day.  She’s knocking on “womankind’s door” and I’m wondering why milk and cookies with me won’t solve her problems.

She has valid issues about me, some others just in her mind.  I wish she wasn’t such a great actor.

Cancer just sucks.  It doesn’t matter if you develop it mysteriously, environmentally, genetically, accidentally or through poor health habits.  It’s still cancer.

Remission is a fallacy.  You always have cancer and no matter what, it should show up on a coroner’s cause of death report some day even if you die in a car accident.

Cancer has worked it’s way though my family and doesn’t show signs of stopping.  There are more question marks for us than there are answers.

The financial cost is staggering and the quality of life just isn’t quality.  Cancer eventually wins and that is sad

Today should be a banner day.  O.J. is finally in jail, the summer heat is taking a break, my kids are healthy, if not happy and the Chicago Cubs might just pull off a playoff spot.

Greenspan is speaking truths, The Sopranos go off on top, Blackwater gets kicked out of
Iraq and my two dogs are treating the Fall weather like a gift from the canine gods.

So how come I woke up with the blues all around?  I know the reason.  I just would rather ask the questions than confront the answers.  It’s safer, but not really productive.

I skipped church today.

I slept until noon today. 

I had breakfast at half-past noon today. 

I drove to the video store and rented Desperate Housewives today.

I got a box of donuts today.

I ate a donut and went back to bed at 2:30 pm today.

I uploaded some photos onto myspace today.

I watched the entire disc of Desperate Housewives today.

I ate another donut today.

I went to the mall, but didn’t buy anything today.

I made a sandwich and ate some grapes today.

I bought a cheesy meaty something at Taco Bell today.

 
I failed today.

I am not a victim.  This didn’t happen to me.   I did this.  To myself.  I was there every single step of the way.  I boxed everyone out.  I carved this pristine life out of stone and steel and I only made room for one.  I pushed others out through twin swinging doors of greater expectations and feigned career aspirations, and now there’s only me. 

I’m sure when I started I knew what I was doing.  I must  believe the younger me wasn’t a fool.   But I can’t remember.   I hope it’s not too late. 

I hope there’s still hope.

We are in the Days of Awe.  It’s the period in the Jewish calendar between the new year and the Day of Atonement.  One way Jews atone is by giving  charity.  I like doing this and feel blessed to give.  It allows me to honor people I love and advance causes that are important to me.One organization that especially excites me  is Kiva.org.  They link lenders with people around the world who want to start or grow their business.  99.6% of recipients pay their loans back.  I give without expecting in return and hope to keep paying it forward.

Her usual complaints:  too immature, doesn’t speak all my languages, not tall enough, no personality.

After careful deliberation, I invite her to dinner:  You’re coming, and so is my friend.  And his brother, who’s five years older, works at a cool company, speaks English and Mandarin.  Fluently.  He’s tall enough.   

During dinner, he asks her genuine questions and listens.  He shares his interest in hiking, talks about the stray cat he rescued, admits to watching Korean soaps when extremely bored.  After dinner, he helps her into her jacket. 

So?  I ask, all eagerness.  I’m not sure, she shrugs, too nice. 

We slip away from the wedding, you and I, in between the evening and afternoon festivities. Hand in hand, we walk along by the river, a river that, although we don’t know it, will flood soon. We go back to the car for my sensible shoes first.

Others from the party, walking along the path in the opposite direction, keep a respectful distance. Once they have gone, I turn and face you and stand, as always, on tiptoe, my feet stretching as far as they can, to kiss you. My hat, caught in the breeze, goes skittering along the path.